If there has ever been anything I’ve done wrong in my life, it has been to assume I’m capable of handling any kind of relationship at all. With my complete psychobiological understanding of love, I don’t know how I keep going on and insisting that I’m in love; because I don’t even know what the fuck it is. What a meager complication, love. When others in the world are supporting two children on minimum wage, or are born HIV-positive into a biome of poverty. People wonder why I used to cut myself, and I’d tell them it was out of shame. Shame of what? Of being ungrateful.

Now, I don’t even have a smooth body to be proud of. I’m ashamed of everything.